Northern Fires and Southern Frost
by hollowed.akatsuki
Summary: What do the playthings of fate and destiny do when each have had their appointed affairs? What does the Dragonborn do when his purpose has long since passed? More importantly, what will he do, when a Thalmor Justiciar is tasked with capturing Skyrim's greatest hero in wake of the civil war? (The rating is but a precaution, I assure you)
1. The Hunt

**The Hunt: Chapter I**

"We drink to our youth, to days come and gone…"

The blade slipped in gently. Just a little prick was all it took for the tender flesh to part, and for the crimson, liquid miracle of life to slowly swell from the wound. The slightest change in pressure, and more sinews began to smoothly pull apart, like the inferior stitching of an old fishwife's hand-made tunics.

"For the age of aggression is just about done." Lillandril Stormbinder's voice was low and placid, his words rolling out like sweet honey, or shared words between starry-eyed lovers. Taking the place of his fair maiden, then, was the emaciated prisoner bound in a chair, bleeding and stubbornly refusing to cry out for mercy.

The man was a Nord, a Stormcloak, if memory served Lillandril. His superiors would have used the phrase "heretic," but Lillandril went a step further; his word for opposition to the White-Gold Concordant was "game." Someone- perhaps hidden of the ranks of his own detachment of soldiers- had started the rumor that Lillandril enjoyed…well, "savoring" the spoils of his macabre hunt. Just as Lillandril preferred, most of his subordinates left it at that.

A few more deft flicks of the blade, and Lillandril had finally crushed the will of his charge. What had once been oafish, savage grunts behind gritted teeth began tremulous wails. Tremulous wails became thunderous roars, before drifting down to distressed sobbing. Such a marvelous range of emotion was on display, indeed! _Oh, if only dear older brother Gallandril could see this. Yes…I'd force him down into an adjacent chair, force him to watch, then slit his throat afterwards. T'would be such a perfect ending to a perfect evening…_

"Nine…by…by the Nine, please! I-I'll tell you where o-o-our camp is! Just please, stop this…this…"

The Nord then broke down into a cascade of unintelligible blubbering, his dirty, bloodied hair hanging over his face, thankfully concealing the ruins that was his nose, bottom lip, and teeth (or what was left of them).

Lillandril greeted this…breakthrough with a raised eyebrow. Gazing at him with his hungry, tawny eyes, he sneered, "Troop positions, then?"

A light of hope seemed to radiate through the Nord's remaining eye as he looked up. Then again, anyone would, if they saw an imminent catharsis to their rather painful tribulation. Well, in _his_ case, "torture" would be more appropriate.

"Yes! Just, please, something f-for th-the pain. I-it…I can't take it anymore. Please, anything to s-soothe the…"

"What made you think I wanted to know about troop positions?" Lillandril laughed. "As you've likely noticed, I'm not like other Justiciars. You humans are a…damn it, what's the word- ah, yes, 'pestilence.' Still incredulous? Well, let's go through a basic rundown- your race is filled with uneducated cretins whose idea of a good time is sticking each other with swords. You hate everyone that doesn't have blunted ears like yours, and refuse to trust anything or anyone that doesn't use brawn. With that being said, your kind isn't even worth enslaving for menial tasks, and you seem to enjoy worshipping your deceased dictators- sorry, _emperors_ , don't you? Ugh, and the taste! Dreadful! It is like…pork mixed with ash yams, molded cheese, and sodding troll droppings!"

Lillandril took a deep breath, the weight of countless, previously stigmatic opinions being lifted from his chest. This outburst had provided such liberation of spirit only slightly outshone by the deed that had preceded it. Sadly, though, their time together was drawing towards an inevitable end. It was during periods such as this that the act of breaking a heretic's will proved increasingly unsatisfactory. Like a stale joke, it lingered just long enough to quickly grow tedious with its mere presence. Thus, it was time to end this wondrous spectacle, lest it turn into a listless chore.

"More importantly," Lillandril said as he drew the dagger across the Nord's throat, "I've enough funding to do whatever I damn well please, and my employers enjoy the zealous work that I do. So, in short, you can go kindly piss off and die."

(A shout-out to Kalathon the Comical's forum, "The Adventure Has Only Begun." Without this forum, I would not have had much reason to join this website, nor to actually set about creating such…vivid characters like Lillandril Stormbinder. Hopefully, they shall not mind me using this character, but just in case, I feel that some sort of recompense is necessary. If anyone would like the opportunity for some good old-fashioned RPing, then thou art in luck. I suggest- for those of you who like making wondrous tales of your own- that you visit the aforementioned forum. Come on in, and join this enclave of writers. We have cookies…)


	2. The Melancholic Epilogue

**The Melancholic Epilogue: Chapter II**

Silence. Fjolnir hated silence. The stillness of the air, the unbroken, nonexistence of activity, the inevitable noise that would make the Nord jump regardless of how greatly he steeled himself- it was simply too much to bear. Such is why Fjolnir also hated midnight, and the shadowy quiet that it entailed.

It was silence that the Dragonborn dreaded, and it was precisely that which he received. No matter how he tried to toss and turn atop the furs of the bed, he could not force his mind to succumb to the sweet gift of sleep. Funny how that works; dragons have in innate desire to dominate, yet Fjolnir Sword-Quill could not so much as control his racing mind for but an hour's worth of sleep. Rather, it was a losing battle- one that he lost every single night, and one that he barely walked away from come dawn. Not to say that he was _entirely_ without a worthy solution…

Thankfully, the bottle of mead that served as his "sedative" was on the end table where he had left it the night before. One quick swig was enough to calm his nerves somewhat, though sleep still proved just out of his reach. Thus, Fjolnir was left with no other choice but the most obvious- to sit there in bed, alcohol in hand, and wait until Vaermina came to collect his dreams in Quagmire for the night. No matter how long it took, tonight would _not_ be another sleepless night.

 _Come, now, you Daedric harlot! That's it. Yes…take me to your embrace this night. I can feel your presence. Thank you, Vaermina…_

 _Wait a minute…_

The Dragonborn felt his body drifting between realms, and the warmth of the darkness overtaking him. He was seconds from being released from the night's troubles when a stifling, dreaded foe came to impede his progress: a long, unexpected, terrible, _ghastly_ …yawn.

 _This is why people don't worship the Daedra openly, I tell you. For now, I can think of another place that you can stick your Staff of Corruption, Vaermina. Sweet dreams, you pubescent-voiced sleep-fiend! Molest me no longer, you snowback! Sleep is for the weak anyways…_

Fjolnir was just about to give up when that abhorred silence was finally broken. Not by him, this time, but by…something. He couldn't make out the sound properly, but the Nord was certain that it was that of footsteps. _A most unwelcome sightseer…_

With grace befitting a drunken Dovahkiin, Fjolnir stumbled for towards the door, forcing himself into a silent, clumsy sprint so that he may make it there before his little "guest." The Nord was just about to go into battle unarmed when he suddenly realized the imprudence of his decision. He rectified that error by grabbing the nearest thing in sight, praying that that trusty tool would not let him down.

 _This knife has torn apart many a plate of venison; let's see what it does to scurrying mice and plotting thieves._ With this thought in mind, his grip on the kitchen utensil tightened in unison with the rest of his sword arm. With bated breath, Fjolnir was prepared to strike when the door opened. The door's swinging might have been gentle, but Fjolnir was anything but. Like a vicious sabre cat, he lunged atop the would-be intruder, knife pressed up against her neck.

"My Thane!" Fjolnir's housecarl exclaimed.

Lydia's voice was a welcome reprieve from the night's terrors, yet there was a quiver that Fjolnir could not miss, no matter how inebriated he might have been. Quite awkwardly, Fjolnir rose to his feet, followed by his dear Housecarl.

"Where were you?" he asked quietly, the sharpness in his voice evident.

"You…this morning, my Thane, you sent me away to the market for some errands. Surely you haven't…"

"I did," Fjolnir interrupted. "I'm sorry. I had forgotten."

"I also noticed that you had replaced the candles from yesterday- I had to stumble about in the dark to get here," she complained, rubbing at the area where Fjolnir's knife had been. "Don't tell me that you've been in here all day…"

"I have," he replied brusquely. "I've sat here and waited. Then, when the time for waiting was long past, I tried to fall asleep. Both of those are two more battles that I have lost."

"What exactly were you waiting for?"

"The call."

"The call?" Lydia quizzically reiterated, her confusion plain for the shadows twinkling in the moonlight to see.

"Yes, the call. Alduin was one of them. Every bounty that I have undertaken was also one. I've no other trade but what I can stab with my sword, and yet I'm told by Proventus _every single day_ that there are no bounties to be had right now. 'No dragon sightings today, Thane,' he tells me. 'I never thought I'd live to see the day that Skyrim was such a bastion of safety!' Or, my personal favorite: 'Perhaps you hunted them to extinction? Whiterun could not be safer, with the Dragonborn of legend as its champion.' Well and good, but what in the name of Oblivion am I supposed to do, when I don't have a fucking trade anymore?"

By the end of his rant, Fjolnir was breathing through gritted teeth. Fire was in his veins, and all that he could see was red. Scarlet, infuriating crimson, the vibrant hues of suppressed fury, of raw emotion bursting like dams. Fjolnir could not say how long he had been yearning to say this, but the catharsis was not as sweet as he imagined. That, of course, just made him angrier.

Hesitantly, Lydia asked, "What of the autobiography that you were planning on publishing?"

"What of it?" Fjolnir retorted, the flames of his vehemence being kindled by the reminder. "It went nowhere! The thrice-damned thing died past page one! No matter where I go, whatever I do, these damned rumors always get around faster than I do! Regardless of what I write of, all I'm doing is preaching to a choir that's been trained to 'ooh' and 'ah' at my beck and call! I can't write about my fight atop _The Courtesan's Bane_ anymore! I can't regale the people about how I killed a pirate captain atop his ship in the Sea of Ghosts!"

"And the legend of the Dragonborn! Everyone knows it, everyone gossips about it, and it's as stale as the bread in the Bannered Mare! What am I, now? Have I fallen so low that I _wait_ to save the day for a lot of defenseless peasants and asinine guards?"

"You…you're the Dragonborn; you are the champion of Skyrim, the _slayer of the World-Eater_. All of Skyrim- no, all of Tamriel would be lost without you." Lydia's argument, as Fjolnir noticed, was verging on being one of pure, innocent pleading. It was futile, however. Innocence was not welcome in Breezehome; naiveté was but a sinful pleasure. None of it had a place in Fjolnir's dwelling.

"Oh, yes. They would have been lost without me. And now? It's like I'm some novelty from a bygone era- a time when the world wasn't safe, and when everyone didn't have wet nurses to clean up after them whenever they pissed themselves. I'm like a rusty blade now, Lydia. All of those swords that I went through in my travels? The world's tossed me aside just like all of them. What use does the world have of a warrior, during a time of peace? Of a writer of battles, when the world wants to recover from the wounds of a war?"

Crestfallen, the dejected Nord sharply exhaled as he bowed his head. "The future belongs to the meek, now. The world doesn't need its Dovahkiin anymore. 'The Born Hunter of Dragonkind,' in the tongue of those wyrms. A tongue just as dead as the dragons who wielded it, and the Dragonborn who killed them."

Lydia was about to protest his remark, but Fjolnir silenced her with a wave of his hand. "We will speak no more of this. Thank you for the groceries, as always. And…forgive me for the inexcusable attack. Do not let me keep you any longer. I myself must see if sleep is indeed impossible this night. You may leave."

With an obedient "Yes, my Thane," Lydia closed the door behind her, and went, presumably, back to her own quarters. With her exit, Fjolnir was left alone once again. Except, of course, for his dear friends. Ironically, the dreaded silence returned to the room once again, like the soft touch of a comforting friend. They were not alone, however. Misery loves company, after all.


	3. Morbid Pleasures and Macabre Business

**Morbid Pleasures and Macabre Business: Chapter III**

"Leg."

"Leg?" Lillandril repeated with a laugh. "Are you _absolutely_ sure? I mean, I know my hands are shaky right now, but that's a bit of an exaggeration on your part. A bit costly, too, wouldn't you say?"

"Sir, I am absolutely sure," his subordinate replied, a hint of smug confidence in his tone of voice.

Lillandril shrugged. Without looking, the Justiciar allowed the quarrel to swiftly fly across the room with a soft _thrum_. When he finally viewed the manacled prisoner, he was glad to see that a bolt now protruded from the heretic's arm. Well, not just _a_ bolt, of course- Lillandril counted about six, but he couldn't be sure how many were deeply lodged in this human porcupine. Not that it mattered, anyways. A bet was a bet, and Lillandril had just won himself some drinking money for the next town that they raided.

"So, how are your children, Sergeant Vingdrill?" Lillandril asked over the screaming of their hostage. Vingdrill- scowling as he dropped the coin purse into his commanding officer's hand- lightened up at the mention of his youths.

"The oldest is going on about how he is going to be 'just like his Uncle Stormbinder' someday. Farya, I'm told, is becoming quite the little scholar. To hear my wife tell the tale, she has been sneaking out of bed at night to read tomes about magical theories, and one of the servants found a copy of _The Monomyth_ underneath her bed just last week."

Lillandril heartily laughed. "They sound more and more like me and my sister every day. Take care, though, that the third doesn't grow up to be a second Gallandril. The black sheep of the family, that bastard is."

"The first-born too, isn't he, sir?"

"Regrettably. _He_ was groomed for a career in politics his entire childhood. I, however, was kept around the estate like some back-up heir, in case he should meet a tragic- if not merited and justified- end. Maybe that's why I got into as much trouble as your little one is. Playing about in the gardens, pretending to whisk away young maidens to a life of romance, dreaming of the day when I was a proper Justiciar…"

"That's why you're the best damn Talos-hunter, sir." Vingdrill assured.

"As if there was any doubt."

Lillandril was about to reload the crossbow for another round when his squire appeared. The Khajiit had a look of concern on his dark face, his pale green eyes shifting nervously as he approached. In his hands was a letter…with the official stamp of the Third Aldmeri Dominion upon it.

"Khrazz apologizes for the intrusion, but this one has a very important message. 'Urgent' was the word that the courier used."

"Sergeant Vingdrill, you are dismissed. Be sure to tell the little ones that I said hello."

Saluting Lillandril, Sergeant Vingdrill exited the room. Somewhat unfortunate, however, as that meant that he would not be there to hear of the praise that the Aldmeri Dominion had sent his commanding officer. Lillandril could hear it now; _Oh, Lillandril, you are our greatest Justiciar! We are nothing without you! Had you not flayed alive every heretic you've come across, Talos would still be part of these filthy humans' pantheon! Please, accept this office back in Alinor that we grant you!_ Yes...such praise was inevitable.

"If you would, Khrazz, please read the letter aloud," Lillandril said when the two of them were alone- the mortally wounded prisoner excluded. The Altmer could scarcely conceal his thin-lipped smile, stifling a chuckle at the coming adulation.

Tearing the wax seal apart with his claw, Khrazz cleared his throat. The beleaguered Khajiit unfolded the letter and began reading its contents.

" _Justiciar Lillandril Stormbinder of Alinor,_

 _In the past, you have proven to be one of our most useful, most effective operatives where state matters where concerned. During the Great War, many a scheme was uncovered and foiled by you, an interrogator at the time. We took care to not ask of how you achieved those results, but nevertheless applauded your success._

 _Later, we found that giving you your own detachment of loyal soldiers to enforce the White-Gold Concordant was another resounding victory for the Dominion. Under your command, countless heretical sects of Talos-worshipping dissidents were wiped out, innumerable insurgents were detained and tried for their heinous crimes, and it looked as though long-term peace was indeed at hand._

 _Then, of course, you proved invaluable during the Civil War of Skyrim- as the historians are now calling it. Your…cooperation with officials in Cyrodiil proved contributory to the Imperial victory that we all sought after this long, weary war that left all its participants equally wizened and frail. Reconstruction efforts are already underway in the wake of the fall of this rebellion, and your efforts are immensely appreciated._

 _With that being said, however, there is a grave manner to discuss. We have reviewed the countless "war crimes" that both sides of the conflict have specifically accused you of (i.e. Unlawful torturing of prisoners of war, the pillaging of several small hamlets on the outskirts of Skyrim, the violent assault and disembowelment of several priests of the Divines, the flaying alive of several aforementioned prisoners of war, the raping of approximately twenty young maidens- undertaken by several of your subordinates, ect.), and we now realize that action must be taken, lest a political incident occur._

 _Thus, we are temporarily revoking the privileges once given to you under normal circumstances (i.e. unlimited funding, diplomatic impunity, ect.), as well as withdrawing half of the allotted fifty soldiers under your command. Meanwhile, it is decided that we are to also assign you to a different task- with the supposed end of the mass dragon attacks, we would like to take this opportunity to find and detain the Dragonborn (Known as one "Fjolnir Sword-Quill," whose description can be found below)._

 _Your orders, then, are to…_ "

"That's enough, Khrazz," Lillandril interrupted, the color draining from his face as he heard the Khajiit read aloud this most dreadful betrayal. So that was how it was; thrown to the wolves, left to the mercy of his enemies, robbed of his impunity. He felt naked now. Vulnerable. All eyes were on him, now. Now more than ever, his every action undertaken was susceptible to criticism, and every measure of devotion to the Thalmor cause on his part was sure to be scrutinized. Lillandril was never one to charge into battle without his armor, but now it seemed that he would have to perform his duties as a Justiciar without his paper shield- his aegis meant to ward off sycophants and meddling politicians. And they expected him to capture the Dragonborn? If he should be caught, Lillandril would more than likely face "justice" for his various endeavors.

Then again...

 _Am I really going to let that stop me, though? Let them send as many people as they want to stop me. I need more leather for my new cloak, after all._

"Khrazz," Lillandril said softly, "where might we find him? Are there any titles that he holds? Land? Houses? Property, even?"

"He is a Thane, my lord."

"Of?"

"Whiterun, Falkreath, Riften, Markarth, Solitude, and-"

"I get the point, Khrazz. What else?" Lillandril interrupted.

"Khrazz apologizes, sir. His dossier also mentions briefly property in most of the holds here in Skyrim, a small home in Raven Rock, and approximately three homesteads about the province."

"Auri-El's incandescent merhood, how in the name of thrice-damned Oblivion are we going to find him?" Lillandril vehemently spat.

"Well, this one believes that we might be able to…" Khrazz trailed off when he saw a certain glint in Lillandril's eye. It was the one that he had learned to fear- that of sudden inspiration, and of daring, bold intentions.

"No…I know what we will do. Send word to General Tulius. And maybe his quaint puppet- pardon, _Jarl Elisif_ \- as well. We need not find the Dragonborn."

"If Khrazz may ask, why is that so, sir?"

Lillandril laughed. "Because, my dear fuzzy steward, _they_ are going to help us find him."


	4. The Serendipity of the Wyvern

**The Serendipity of the Wyvern**

 _The window shattered, a translucent rain of glass shards heralding the moment. One loud crash, the emergence of a glittery sea of shining debris, then silence. Dreaded, woeful, anxious silence filled the darkened room soon after. Each glared at one another, weapons at the ready. For whatever reason, that day, one relented._

 _"Go," he said. His foe stopped dead in his tracks at the word. Glares turned to understanding stares that did more than any exchanging of words could ever do. The words he said to his foe next were…strange…to the tongue. Their meaning is for him to carry alone, however. Him…and the man that escaped that day. An act of mercy, or a cruel curse?_

 _Minutes passed, time caring not for such careful contemplation. Not a moment too soon, the door flung open. Two figures replaced the thick oak door's place in the doorway. "Where did…"_

"My Thane? My Thane!"

Noise. Fjolnir hated noise. That damned intrusive din that rebelliously disturbed him no matter how vehemently he fought against it. Silence and noise. Isolation and congestion. The Nord did not know which one was more annoying.

Refusing to expose his eyes to the blinding light of morn, Fjolnir deigned to at least respond to his Housecarl's concerned verbal prodding.

"What is it, Lydia, my dear steel-clad maiden?" his drunken voice bellowed, the dialect that he used no longer that of the universal language of the drunken vagabond, but now infinitely more coherent and understandable.

"The Jarl has put out a bounty on a dragon!"

 _That_ got Fjolnir up and moving. In one deft movement, the Dragonborn was on his feet, staggering towards the chest that he had long since stored his armor in.

"Where?" he shouted back excitedly. "Oh, how I could hug you, Lydia! Where in the name of Shor's chest cavity is that foul beast?"

"It was seen flying near Valtheim Keep, as of an hour ago."

Fjolnir wasn't entirely sure who was happier right now- Lydia or himself. Lydia certainly seemed overjoyed, and it was hard to see why not. Being cooped up with and his brooding self for two weeks, and their idea of an adventure reduced to an excursion to the market, this was like some hopeful echo from the olden days of their exploits.

And Fjol? This marked the first time in an entire month that he had felt some resembling happiness. Before, his every action felt…repetitive. Radiantly monotonous, shiningly dreary, Gods, it was a stimulating case of apathy! Interesting disinterest, even!

Everything almost felt new again. It was like some mystical vim had ensnared the world, and turned Fjolnir Sword-Quill back into that amicable drunkard that had been sent to the chopping block so long ago. That same Nord that once wrestled a fisherman's son off of a ship in the sea, that same warrior-writer that had practically single-handedly ended the Stormcloak Rebellion was reborn in this one moment. Life was no longer a simplified set of ordinances; gone were the days were a "day" was a series of eating, drinking, pissing, and sleeping. Today, a day was murdering a dragon and eating its soul for lunch.

"If I were you, Lydia," he said, "I would likely head to mine own room."

"Shall I stay behind, my Thane?"

Fjolnir laughed. "Well, if you care to see me in but a loincloth, then by all means, stay in here."

Lydia, upon hearing this unexpected bit of jest, blushed in a very…unbecoming…manner.

"I…I apologize, my Thane! I did not at all mean to intrude! I…will just be going now…"

"Indeed. Oh, and make sure to wear the plate this time. Leave that savage, cowhide-lined steel in the chest."

Fjolnir's dear Housecarl, who had been trying to make a quick escape to avoid further embarrassment, stopped dead in her tracks and turned again to look at her fellow Nord. "I am to accompany you, then?" she asked, evidently confused with Fjolnir's lack of clarity in his directions.

"Of course! That's what I said, wasn't it? This is a monumental moment in my life, you know. I'd invite Serana and company to come along too, but we've little time as it so happens. So yes, armor yourself properly, and meet me downstairs when you feel like you've got everything. Can't have you and I dying because someone forgot their fire-resistant amulet, now can we?"

"I…thank you, my Thane."

" _Fjolnir_ , my dear. Unfortunately, I'm not the High King of Skyrim, so calling me by my so-called 'title' doesn't have the same ring to it," Fjolnir chortled.

With no more friendly banter to exchange, the two went about with their preparations. Lydia returned to her own room, and Fjolnir unlocked the wooden chest where he had stored the armaments and armor that had been allowed to gather dust and other grime for so long.

He couldn't help but cough, then, when the container was fully opened. The miasma of dust irritated his eyes some and he had to fight the urge to sneeze while waiting for his sight to recover. Dust, of course, being the third thing that he hated, alongside silence and loud noise.

Luckily, his armor was in far better condition than he had expected. The scaled steel shone as bright as it once had with a little bit of polishing. Patting down the leather and shaking it proved useful in ridding the breastplate of the fine film of dirt that had accumulated on it. Doing the same with the gauntlets and boots, Fjolnir could finally recognize the glorious raiment of war that he had once strode off into battle in.

If there was one benefit to sleeping half-naked, he realized, it was that actually dressing in much of anything took far less time than if he had bothered with tunics or the like. So, strapping on the scaled armor took but a minute or so, Fjol's trained hands going through the motions as they so often had. The same was true of the gauntlets and boots. In less than ten minutes or so, Fjolnir Sword-Quill was quite literally dressed to kill.

Next, then, was his killing tools. His trusty shield was propped against the chest, so Fjolnir simply grabbed it and dashed out of the room and bounded down the steps, his footsteps thudding with as much anticipation as was carried in himself and- presumably- in Lydia, as well.

Fjolnir had to admit that Breezehome wasn't quite as…neat as he might have wanted it to be. The dining table was in disarray, with many utensils and empty bottles of mead and every other kind of filthy kitchen apparatus strewn about. To his right, the adjacent room in which the alchemy table and bookshelves was in equal disorganization. His half-assed attempts at alchemy were plain for all to see, what with so many useless potions and tonics scattered around, as well as various ingredients simply left to accumulate in a most unsafe way (bone meal, fire salts, void salts, and vampire dust should probably not be left to collect in the same bowl, after all).

Both in that room and over by the door to Breezehome, the books were just about the cleanest thing in the entire house. Certainly, they were all stacked on top of one another, but their pages were lovingly tended to, and Fjolnir himself was quite territorial of his collection of tomes when he had the rare visitor enter his domain. If he had any hope of being a writer, of course, he would have to keep his literary knowledge and general gift with words as sharp as possible. Whetstones of the mind, these wondrous tomes were, and they were guarded as such.

There, lying adjacent to the door and another mantelpiece filled with volumes of wizened words, was his beautiful weapon rack. There, he had placed his two gorgeous armaments, his gleaming steel, and his legendary tools of the craft of warfare. First, he took his dagger. Fjolnir almost cringed at how cold it was, and lamented at how terribly unused it had become. Such a weapon, after all, deserved far better treatment. A blade of this craftsmanship deserved to be bathed in the blood of his foes, not drenched in a sea of dust! That, he supposed, would change today. For as he gripped the supple leather of the hilt, he vowed that- before all was said and done- this dagger would taste dragon blood once again.

Depositing the blade onto his sword belt, Fjolnir was hesitant to wield the true beauty that hung in front of his eyes. The sword was sleek, its blade sharp enough to strike him blind just by glancing upon it, and its very steel luminous. Fjolnir had once dabbled in blacksmithing, but never did he ever come close to forging something as fabulous as Skyforge Steel. The weapon itself was a relic from his early years- of a mere seven days spent about warriors that he once thought were like himself. Today, this same killing tool did not stand for companionship or justice or whatever pseudo-philosophical metaphor that warrior-poets often dreamed up; this blade was his. It stood for _him_. This was the Dragonborn's sword. Its very nature was that of its owner- of a slayer of dragonkind. Today, it would do as much. The middle-aged Nord silently swore it to himself, and to his sword.

Ceremoniously, Fjolnir Sword-Quill slid the blade into its scabbard, soothed by the gentle scraping of leather and steel against one another, their own friction working together in housing such a dangerously beautiful implement. With that small bit of ritual completed, he was finally ready to slay a dragon for the first time this month. Well, he _would_ be, as soon as he grabbed the knapsack lying near the door. But, alas, he still had to wait for Lydia.

 _Poor girl_ , Fjolnir lamented to himself. Admittedly, he was…not the best of Thanes. Certainly, he was a hero of Whiterun and perhaps all of Skyrim, but leading was not his forte. Perhaps out of pity or some guilt, the old sellsword had opted to bring her along occasionally, though he himself likely got her into more trouble than she dare find on her own. _He_ was used to traveling and fighting alone; his dear Housecarl was accustomed to taking orders, and acting on her own instinct (which always tied back to serving as a guardian to her Thane, as was her duty). Needless to say, that never worked out.

Whenever Fjolnir would devise a scheme, he now had to come up with some inane role for Lydia to play. And, thanks to his lack of familiarity with joint efforts and "teamwork," these roles he assigned often undermine the original plan in the first place. Other times, a lack of communication would lead to Lydia being cornered by savage bandits or left behind somewhere in an ancient Nordic crypt. Meanwhile, the Dragonborn always fought onwards solo, unaware that his protector was now in need of protecting.

And that was just in their travels. At home, Fjolnir proved more burdensome, somehow. Maybe it was because he never had need of a servant. Maybe it was because ordering about someone who was _trained_ to be high-maintenance and malleable was too much of a hassle. Or, maybe it was because Fjolnir just didn't care. But, for whatever reason, the Nord always proved distant and aloof in their brief moments of respite. Oh, he certainly joked about and jested with his fighting companion, he knew, but there was still a lack of…connection…between the two. They were practically trapped within a master-servant relationship, truth be told. How could they possibly connect when her very job was to die for him? That morbid thought always hanging in the background, that grim realization that her days could very well be numbered…

And he was taking her _with_ him, now? Fjolnir truly wanted to dash his head into the wall as he considered this. He was practically leading her to her death right now. Yet why was he still calm, still content, still _willing_? No, _uncaring_.

Fjolnir sharply sighed. The more he thought about it, the more it gnawed at him. And the more it gnawed at him, the more he thought about it. Like an endless cycle, these thoughts of doubt and blame just sapped at his will. More and more, his love of battle was twisted into a fear of death. Not his, though, but of those around him. Most immediately, it was that of Lydia, but most people about him seemed to meet tragic, sometimes even ambiguous ends. He had no idea where Ka'Liar was, and countless explorers likely cursed him in their final breaths as many an adventure descended into skirmishes for survival.

"My Thane?"

Dread washed throughout every fiber of Fjolnir's being. Lydia's gentle tapping of the shoulder felt as subtle as the bone-crushing force of a mace. All would be well, he knew, until they arrived at Valtheim Keep. Then…

He could stop this, he realized. If he had the nerve, he could tell her to stay behind, to look after the house until he returned, anything but _this_. Just one sentence was all it would take. Just one, singular, sole sent-

"Fjolnir?"

"Yes?" he said blankly, his thoughts still floating about somewhere other than here.

"Shall we depart?"

Silence filled Breezehome. Not a peaceful quiet, but a deafening, thunderous void. Slowly, the Nord looked at Lydia, examining her, for lack of a better phrase. She looked…fearsome, truth be told. Adorned in the finely-crafted steel plate that they had acquired during some random escapade, the thought of her possibly being torn apart by a dragon seemed like some impossibility. But, for all the armaments in the world, for all the strength that Shor in Sovngarde could grant her, she could scarcely hold a candle to the Dovahkiin. Even other _dov_ for that matter. This could end but one way. Why couldn't he just _say it_ , though?

The word was not his own- the voice belonging to someone else. Some malevolent force controlled his action like some grotesque puppeteer. One word. One word that would end in but one way.

"Yes."


	5. Relruthmaar

**Relruthmaar**

"Het Zu'u los, Dovahkiin! Grind hin oblaan! Grind rel do ruth ahrk maar!"

The mighty wyrm before them was a big one, Fjolnir noted. _Huge_ , most would say. Its large, bronze scales shone blindingly bright beneath the afternoon sun, and its eyes were two burning embers surrounded by a pit as black as the Void itself. The dov's voice sounded like the ungodly cacophony of two mountains chafing past one another. Unlike the otherworldly voice of Alduin, this dragon's voice seemed to intrude into Fjolnir's very being, and seemed to pervade the very boundaries of soul and flesh itself.

The head of the beast was even more fierce and feral. With teeth locked in a perpetual snarl, a horned snout that seemed to exhale smoke with each breath, and a set of curling horns that locked back into some crown of jagged bone, Fjolnir looked upon this creature with dismay.

When Lydia had told him that the Jarl had placed out a bounty on a dragon, he had expected some small wyvern or a little green lizard. Instead, he had received Alduin's bigger cousin. _Not very sporting, this one. Acting like some measly flying pest, when he himself is fouler and more malicious than those damned ancient dragons._

Now more than ever, he regretted having ever decided to take Lydia along for this excursion. While she stared down the beast, blade unsheathed and shield raised, the wyvern was hungrily glaring back at the both of them, head darting from the Dovahkiin to his traveling companion, then back to the prophesized slayer of dragons.

"Lydia," Fjolnir said sharply, "get inside the keep. _Stay_ there."

Hesitantly- no, almost _rebelliously_ \- Lydia slunk off, slow and deliberate as if to spite him. Fjol's heart was racing, his nerves raw and chaffing with each passing second. Truthfully, Fjolnir would have grabbed her by the arm and threw her inside himself if there was not a leering beast watching him. She would likely never understand his motives, but Fjolnir would be damned if he was going to have to contend with her death.

Fjolnir was brought back to reality with a deep, rumbling din. The ground shuddered at the clamor. It was then that the sellsword discovered the sound's origin; the dragon was laughing. _Laughing_. This scaly bastard dared to chuckle at the concept of humanity, at the meaning of altruism and compassion. No, these monsters knew only how to dominate; in their ancient culture, there was no distinction between who was ethically correct and who was the strongest. Dictation was their sole concept. Which was fine with Fjolnir, he silently admitted. He would just teach this lizard the concept of mortality.

"Yol…Toor Shul!"

The Shout caught Fjol by surprise. In seconds, a stream of flame had sprouted from the very lungs of his scaled opponent. He barely had enough time to roll out of harm's way. At the same time, the dragon had decided to take to the skies and attack from afar. If the beast had not been trying to kill him, Fjolnir would have written poetry about the majesty of the feral animal as it sliced through the wind itself in its flight; alas, it was time to take this glorious fiend down.

"Joor…Zah Frul!"

Azure tendrils twisted from within the dragon's being, shining bronze and striking blue merging in a dissonant synchronization. "Niid!" the wyrm indignantly protested. His fluid flight had descended into a violent collision with the keep, his massive form destroying the upper portion of the decrepit tower. Rubble flew into the river below, stone crashed to the road below, and several wood tables splintered upon impact with the ground. Though worse for wear, the tower remained. Somewhat. Lydia, hopefully, was still alive, albeit disconcerted.

"Come on, big guy," Fjolnir laughed. "I hope you aren't planning on calling it quits. I, for one, want to enjoy this hunt."

His pride hurt, the ancient dragon violently staggered to his feet, and turned back towards his Nordic nemesis. Craning over his own large physique to glare at Fjolnir, the dragon let loose another torrent of flame, his Voice louder than before, each syllable of the Shout pronounced far sharper than they formerly were.

Smirking, Fjolnir rolled beneath the flame, the heat blaring upon his back, and his skin began to sweat as though he had been standing near a campfire. He was amused to know that his words actually daunted this colossal foe. And why wouldn't he be? Before, he was a measly mercenary who could scarcely stand in this world. But once he learned of the power that lurked beneath him…he became a walking legend. A gift of the gods themselves. Fjolnir Sword-Quill, Dovahkiin, "Born Hunter of Dragonkind," the less-known "Dancer of the Sea of Ghosts," the titles went on. Few could stand before him, and fewer survived such encounters. This dragon was no exception.

Angrily, his foe followed up his shout with a bite that could have split a man in two. A humid draft washed over Fjolnir as he slid underneath the dragon, again narrowly avoiding the attack. As he came underneath the exposed underbelly of the massive wyvern, the Nord lashed out with his sword and dagger, seeking to pierce the scaled abdomen of his enemy. Some of his mad slashes drew blood, whilst several of his wrathful stabs let loose a surge of crimson lifeblood.

The dragon roared in fury, and stood on his haunches. Flapping his wings, he succeeded in taking to the skies, his frame seeming almost serpentine as he snaked away past the trees and rocks. Fjolnir was about to use Dragonrend once again to prevent his escape…until the dragon changed courses once again. He was heading directly for Fjolnir, his snarl looking more like a smile in this one moment. It didn't take a scholar to guess what he was planning on doing.

Fjolnir struggled for the shield strapped upon his back, the dagger in his left hand clattering to the ground in the attempt. He cursed as he clumsily attempted to get his hand into a stalwart clasp onto the shield's grip. Bringing it above his face, Fjolnir dropped to one knee in an attempt to conceal as much as his body behind the steel aegis.

He could hear the buffeting of the wind. He could hear the dragon roaring. Yet…why hadn't the beast Shouted? Daring to peer from over his shield, Fjolnir was horrified to see that the dragon had disappeared. A large, scaly child of Akatosh had just flown away when Fjolnir had so much as turned his sight!

Fjol was just about to frantically search for his adversary when he heard the flapping of wings once again. Except this time, they were closer. Yet the dragon was still nowhere in sight, Fjolnir noted. That could only mean one thing…

"Yol…Toor Shul!"

Fjolnir's was blinded by the sudden igniting of flames, his guard weakened by the distraction. Already, he could feel the heat. He could feel his skin burn away, his eyes melting, his bones charring and blackening. Fjolnir Sword-Quill could feel himself being given over to the flames.

Except it never came. As Fjolnir struggled to lift his shield back above his head, he could hear the inferno beating over steel already. With his shield not even in the way of danger, this proved peculiar. As he tried to blink out the blinding light, he gradually regained his vision. The sight awaiting him was extraordinary.

Standing over his prone body was Lydia, her own shield raised, its fine craftsmanship quite literally parting the flames that it withstood. Standing strong behind it was the mighty lass herself, heroically erect and defiant against this bane of men.

As the final embers dissipated into the air, the dragon once again took to the skies. Lydia took but a moment to glance in Fjolnir's direction. He could see a tell-tale glint of teeth in the afternoon sun. His Housecarl had just defied his orders, ran out to face a dragon, and saved his life in one fell swoop. And she was grinning like a fool. _I tend to rub off on people like that, apparently._

Dusting himself off, Fjolnir rose to his feet. The dragon was simply toying with them now; swishing about in the air one way, then diving dangerously close to the ground another. One moment he would be in front of them, and another he would be flanking them, before swooping back around in their line of sight. The Dragonborn would have tried to Shout the dragon back to earth, but that would mean a moment of vulnerability if he should miss; not just for him, but for-

 _Gods damn it, enough of this! She came out here on her own accord- her life is in her hands, as is my life in mine. Her survival is determinant of her actions in this fight. So, I've free reign to Shout whenever I see the opportunity to. She's not like to complain, in any event…_

"Joor…Zah Frul!"

Once more, the dragon was sent plummeting to the ground as a series of cobalt wisps sprouted from his scaly hide. This time, however, his body crashed onto the ground with a thunderous _boom_. Unlike last time, his recovery was slow and lethargic, his every movement accompanied by pained roars and unsteady, shaky jerks.

"Lydia?"

"Yes, Fjolnir?"

"Let's finish up here."

With his Housecarl in tow, Fjolnir charged. Gripping his sword in both hands, he delivered a gruesome slash to the wyvern's snout. Recoiling in pain, his adversary almost knocked him over with the sweeping motions of his head. Meanwhile, Lydia was making short work of the beast's abdomen. Throwing her weight against the blade, she stabbed upwards and pierced the thick scales protecting the dragon's innards. She followed this up with another stab. And another. And another. Over and over, again and again she attacked. There was no longer any discipline in her attacks. Only some outlandish, foreign bloodlust remained in her technique.

The dragon, at this point, had ceased his attempts at retaliating. At each poke and prod, he merely flinched and tried to escape from the assault, and yet he was still bound to the earthly ground by his (unwillingly) newfound mortality.

After several more slashes, Fjolnir decided that it was time to end this. With the creature's head weakly struggling to lift itself from the ground, it proved surprising to consider that this was- in fact- some lousy excuse for a dragon. An arrogant one, certainly. But by Talos, even Alduin had made Fjolnir work for the victory!

Chuckling, Fjolnir examined his sword. Fresh blood was collecting in the sword's fullers, and a small amount was trickling off onto the earthen ground. Shrugging, he stepped closer to the dragon's head. The beast made no attempt to struggle as the Nord placed his boot upon his head. With a well-placed attack, Fjolnir pierced the wyrm's skull, ending the beast's reign of terror once and for all.

With one last gasp and roar, the dragon perished. Seconds later, his skin began to crackle and peel, his very corpse burning and disintegrating, leaving nothing but bones behind. A familiar sensation overtook Fjolnir. He could feel the surging of the dov's soul as it entered…somewhere. Like a walking, talking soul gem, Fjolnir had just absorbed this dragon's very essence. This dragon was now dead. Permanently. There would be no afterlife for it, presumably. For but a brief moment, he considered where exactly that would place this beast. Would a dragon go to the Soul Cairn? Or, would he be returned to Akatosh? He was left without an answer when he pondered as to how it must have _felt_.

"Well, Lydia, I've acquired a rather insatiable thirst. What say we head down to the Bannered Mare to celebrate?"

"Very well, my Thane."

" _Fjolnir_. Honestly, you are a stickler for tradition, aren't you?"

* * *

"Is everyone inside?"

"Yes, sir," Khrazz replied.

"And how did they take to the news?"

"They refused, initially. General Tulius said little, but his disapproval was obvious. Jarl Elisif protested until Tulius and her steward interrupted."

"And they _are_ going to call for a meeting between the Jarls after this, yes?"

"Yes, sir."

Without another word, Lillandril Stormbinder turned towards the door. Dressed in his ebon-colored Thalmor robes, his hair flung about carelessly as he walked. Slowly, he stepped inside. The Blue Palace was largely left in the same condition as it had been when last he visited- effeminate and womanish, blindingly regal and disgustingly unbefitting for a king- or queen, rather- of the country. A mockery of an Altmer court, plain and simple.

These bureaucrats strode about in their silks and furs, participated in the latest fashion trends and gossiped of the actions of their betters, and proved once again why Man was a disgusting, filthy animal better suited to dying like flies than attempting to "govern" themselves. Their very existence was an affront to the descendants of the Aldmer. Dunmer, Bosmer, Altmer, it made no difference; all of them were better off without this spawn of the Trickster God. And yet Lillandril was bound by duty to swallow his pride and convene with them? First Ambassador Elenwen had a sense of humor…

As he climbed up the stairs to where everyone was situated, Lillandril could tell that the guards were giving him dirty looks from beneath their helms. Even the servants looked upon him with disdain, he noted. No matter, he decided- a pair of boots made from their pelts wouldn't have half as much defiance as they now possessed.

When he had made his way up the staircase, he could finally see the true enemy before him. Jarl Elisif in the center, upon her cushy throne, surrounded by her cowardly court. She was the leader of this farce; the ringleader of this menagerie of clowns. Thanes who had never done a day of work in their lives, a steward who looked as if he had never seen the outside of Solitude except from atop whatever ivory tower he had crawled out of, an oafish Housecarl, parasites, all of them. The only one there who Lillandril would even deign to call a "worthy opponent" was General Tulius, and that in itself was a stretch. An upstart, that one. Raised to Military Governor sometime before Ulfric Stormcloak was captured, according to some dossier he had read. Then, this "Dragonborn" practically ended the war for him, murdered Ulfric, and allowed Tulius to add that to his various "accomplishments." He could never understand humans.

Each and every person here glared at him- only to hide their true feelings beneath the placid masks of a nobleman's court. He knew the tricks; he knew of the concealed emotions that they kept buried, for he himself had watched from afar as his dear brother Gallandrill learned of affairs of state from an early age. He was aware of the artificial motions, the superficial smiles and gestures. They hated him, and he was homicidally-inclined towards each and every human in front of him.

"Greetings, everyone. The Third Aldmeri Dominion sends its regards. We've important business to discuss, so let us hurry and discuss what we 'request' of you."


	6. Fire Without Light

**Fire Without Light**

The guilty. The profane. The blasphemous. Below, tucked within that den of iniquity and degeneracy, the heretics congregated. Like a murder of crows, they gathered about, flocking amidst the dying embers of their campfire as they cawed and croaked to one another.

Brother Harwyn did not even bother listening to whatever inane mockeries of sentient speech that they composed. They were little more than animals, the hulking Nord decided. Faithless, vile, wretched derisions upon Harwyn's revered Talos. As such, theirs was to die. Death to each and every heretic; this one consecrated mantra had long filled the hopelessness of Harwyn's past life. It was a promise that he had long since sworn to himself, and a holy contract with which he alone had struck with the Divines. For the redemption of Man, for the hallowed transcendence of all of humanity…these wanton Elves would become heirs to death itself.

First, however, a private communion would have to precede this event. A champion of faith cannot champion that very thing that he would deny without such a ritual, after all.

Kneeling down, Harwyn's plated armor softly clanked and clattered as he moved. As if he had been offering his blade to some ethereal aspect of the Divines themselves, Harwyn rested his silver-enameled greatsword upon his knee, his hands gently grasping the heavenly apparatus by the hilt and tip.

Closing his eyes, Harwyn recited his sacred supplication to the Nine, part of him hoping that the Thalmor waiting below heard his rebelliously-pious act.

"Talos, grant strength to my arm, that I might enact this tithe of blood in your name, and avenge the wrongs that you have suffered at their hands. Kynareth, I ask that you grant swiftness to this vessel, that the enemies of the Divines may cower before the providential speed of their champion. Julianos, offer me but a small amount of your infinite wisdom to guide my path. Zenithar, smile upon me as I once again rise to partake in the job that you and your kindred Aedra have granted me. Dibella, if I should die in the battle to come, reward me with but a glimpse of what true beauty may look like. Arkay, when my strength falters and my duty has been fulfilled, I bequeath my remains unto you, and ask that you deliver me to the afterlife as you see fit. Akatosh, let my measure of devotion unto you today ring forever in the ears of mortals, that I may take my place by your side when I draw my last breath. Mara, may my love for the Divines and for the homeland stand forever as a testament to the power of your demesne, and the sphere of your influence. Stendarr…allow me to show these heretics the mercy of the afterlife."

 _Tonight shall be their last. Heretics, all of them. Guilty. Wretched, sinful, depraved things. This is but a mercy, a catharsis from the sorrows they unknowingly inflict upon themselves. This is enlightenment. Punishment. Compassion. Penance. Justice. Insight. Death!_

Rising to his feet, Harwyn exhaled, ready both in body and mind for this celestial sacrifice. The homely Nord would not be expected to be a priest, truth be told- the man was brusque, stoic, and taller than most Altmer by slightly more than a head. Quite terrifyingly, much of his physique was muscle, with scarcely a trim of fat to be found much of anywhere on such a magnificent specimen. Such a unique vessel served as a fitting tool to be used by the Divines themselves, he told himself. Tonight would be a test of that statement.

As he descended down into this burrow of the scum of the world, all of Nirn seemed to shrink to just this one little camp of Elves. Sound, smells, even the people themselves were reduced to hollow concepts. This, as Harwyn knew, was but the Divines enacting their will through him, guiding his frail, mortal mind throughout this tremendous act of faith. For one to so willingly damn themselves in the name of the gods… _this_ was a true pledge of devoutness. Words are bound in nothing but the deft tongues that carry them; one can change their beliefs and their virtues as a turncloak might do with factions, and just as easily. But actions? Actions branded themselves upon a person's very soul, the iron of conquest and war burning hot upon the essence of an unblooded. When the smoke cleared, what was once an unbearable, red-hot marking of shame became a badge of honor to be presented before the gods with pride. Brother Harwyn, then, would be adding another brand upon both his body and soul.

Harwyn's mind was numb as he strode into battle. Faintly, he could hear the sound of shouting, of Thalmor soldiers rousing the sleeping ranks of their kinsmen. No doubt, someone had made note of the iconic insignia upon his breast- the intimidating fist of unyielding righteousness and morality upraised in praise of the very heavens, its stony fingers coiled and poised to strike down the unworthy and the impertinent. Or perhaps they already knew of the terror that was Brother Harwyn- the Vanguard of Faith, the Aegis of Piety, the Champion of Divine Justice, and the Instrument of the Will of the Gods.

His opponents were quick to rise, for three adversaries presented themselves before him already. In the moonlight, their armor shone brightly, yet his own silvery plate shone brighter, he knew. Their spears were sharp, he noted, yet- again- his sword was sharper. This battle's outcome was predetermined from the beginning.

One of the fighters made this first move of this grim dance. Cautiously, he attempted to jab at the back of Harwyn's knee, where there was no protection save for the leather binding his holy garments. With speed unbefitting someone his size, Harwyn swung his leg out of the way, and proceeded to drive his shoulder into the Altmer's head.

He would have finished his opponent there, had it not been for the spear that struck him from behind. Turning to face this foe, Harwyn did not attempt to protect himself from his third enemy nor even the briefly incapacitated first. Rather, he delivered a vertical slash to his unlucky attacker. The soldier side-stepped it, but not without falling victim to a horizontal strike aimed directly at his neck. The resulting fountain of lifeblood offered a sharp contrast to the virgin white armor and ashen insignia that Harwyn bore. Upon a grizzled veteran such as himself? It was all too familiar to him…

Very quickly, this was becoming a slaughter. Harwyn's first adversary was the next to perish- having been violently skewered upon the holy knight's sword seconds upon regaining his composure. The final of the three fought valiantly, Harwyn was forced to admit. Blow for blow, this soldier had somehow blocked each of the Nord's increasingly vicious attacks, until an unsuccessful parry left him with a sword arm severed at the joint. Unflinching, Harwyn simply trudged off in search of another opponent, the final combatant's fast-approaching death presaged by the bloodied stump of his arm.

One by one, the men came forth to meet this divine monster. Some brave few tried to take him on their own accord, their almost immediate massacres serving as a warning to anyone else seeking glory in this butchery. The more shrewd fighters attempted to organize themselves in a phalanx covering his flanks. Like some death trap of flesh and steel, four such groups descended upon him in all directions, shields upraised and spears seconds away from striking. Like a great blur, Harwyn had whittled away at one of the walls of this tactical farce, his sword managing to hack the defenses of several soldiers to absolute pieces. From there…there was nothing else that could contain the fiend that was Brother Harwyn.

Harwyn did not doubt that fear was going through the minds of all of these men. And of the Nord himself? As he went through these motions, as he allowed instinct to take over, he felt an almost…sinful…lust overtake him. Each slash, each stab and parry and riposte left him craving more. Every stab of a spear gifted him a feeling of pure ecstasy. The blood washing away the dirt from his face stimulated his senses more than any mortal brew or desires of flesh. Bones cracked, tendons were pulled apart, and lives were ended with each blow he delivered, and horrendous, chilling chuckles complemented each attack they delivered to him.

 _This is what it feels like; having power over the forces of life and death. To decide the fate of a heretic, to damn them for their morally-corrupting beliefs, and for the suffering that they themselves had apathetically ignored. With each piteous cry and every indignant death…I come closer to understanding how it must feel to actually be a god. Insects stand before me, buzzing their pleading as they beat upon their breast for no other boost to morale than their own. They think that they can stand before the gods? We shall see how the Divines will answer, when this challenge reaches their ears…_

Harwyn had since lost all lucidity during this skirmish; all he saw now was mere shapes and hazes, of which he madly chopped until all movement had ceased. Rinse and repeat. One impression here, another silhouette there. With each movement they made, they caught Harwyn's attention, and were subject to his homicidal rampage. None were safe from this spree of violence- rookie fighters playing soldier, tattered veterans of the Great War, sons of bureaucrats who had never set foot outside of Alinor, and every other flavor of Elven scum. All of them- from insignificant footsloggers to sergeants of moderate value- were killed indiscriminately. All had been judged justly by the Divines; all had been placed upon a trial in accordance with divine law. And each and every one of them was guilty.

Guilty…and dead. Not a single soul was left alive in this valley of death, save but for their consecrated executor. Harwyn looked upon his tithe to the gods with pride. Lifeblood had been granted to the hallowed earth itself, remains left for primeval nature to reclaim. Bones, limbs, entrails, and every other kind of mundane body part were strewn about this camp, the essence of the fallen now returned to face judgement before the gods.

Satisfied with his work here on this mortal plane, Harwyn averted his eyes from this knoll of earthly vestiges. Gazing upon the stars, his placid features were replaced with joy. As he stared into the welcoming void of the sky, he could almost _feel_ the gods looking back down upon him. They were pleased with his gift, satisfied with what the avatar of their will had undertaken this night. His mortal masters would be pleased as well, he supposed. Not that it mattered; the gods themselves smiled upon him, and their approval was his sole stimulus. He was their valorous champion, their intrepid defender, and the prescient prophet of their word.

He was the ferryman of the wayward, the eventual shepherd of the boisterous flock of Nirn, the magistrate and arbiter of the sinners of the world, and the punisher for the depravities that they committed. And in his wake, darkness and decay would hold eternal supremacy over the dismal ruins of these dissolute creations of the gods.


	7. A Prelude to Festive Revelries

**A Prelude to Festive Revelries**

"Dragonsreach is closed until further notice," the guard said again.

With a hint of sarcastic, vitriolic anger in his voice, Fjolnir laughed. " _Clearly_ you don't understand. You see, I just killed a _dragon_. For the Jarl of Whiterun. I _need_ to enter so that I can collect the dragon's bounty,"

"Jarl Balgruuf has been called to Solitude. In the meantime, his steward is holding court."

"Good," Fjolnir replied, seconds away from pushing his way through. "Then I suppose that I can meet with him instead, yes?"

"No," the guard replied flatly.

"For what reason? I am a Thane of Whiterun, am I not? By all rights, I am practically part of this court you speak of."

"Inside, they are discussing the reconstruction of the city. The walls are practically falling apart, there is rubble strewn about everywhere, and the gatehouse still reeks of Stormcloaks. I apologize, Dragonborn, but this matter has to be settled first."

"My Thane, we can come again tomorrow," Lydia urged from behind.

In this one case, Fjolnir was inclined to comply. Though still offended at the slight that he had just been dealt, he decided that there were more pressing matters for him to attend to at the moment. His coffers were still plentiful, after all, and it stood to reason that there must be some place for him to seek a night of debauched, exorbitant pleasures. When one escapes from the very maw of death for yet another time, celebration must take precedence, as any sellsword would tell you.

"Very well. I shall relent for today. Thank you for informing me of this turn of events, dear guardsman, and I pray that- come tomorrow- we will have no reason to quarrel once more."

 _You've won this round, you guileless fiend. I will have my compensation tomorrow, I promise you. You shall not stand in the way of me and my drinking money for yet another time!_

Fjolnir bit his tongue before he could project his innermost thoughts, and simply turned towards the market, Lydia trailing behind. The besieged guardsman would never know how lucky he was for this bit of mercy; a sober, stressed Fjolnir was a vehement one.

Whiterun proved far too quiet for Fjolnir's tastes, more so than usual on this particular day. Normally, there would be children scampering underfoot, a beggar or two huddled in the corner begging for alms, and the routine banter accompanying any respectable market. A menagerie of fine ladies might be seen buying produce, Jon Battle-Born would likely make an appearance with the intention of starting a conversation, and one of the guards were certain to gossip about the recent happenings outside of the city, or recount their most recent escapade (oftentimes, it turned out to be a most one-sided slaughter of a thief who, quite foolishly, attempted to take on half of the guards in the Plains District).

The war, it seemed, had quickly stamped out the flames of liveliness and replaced it with the cold ashes of monotonous hollowness. Even Heimskr could not chant above the deafening silence that filled the hold. Like some dreaded stasis, the city seemed to be trapped within a mournful miasma, with no potential end in sight. Every second spent in Whiterun seemed to sap the vim out of even the most willful of men nowadays. The war might have been won, yet the cost for it might have been a far worse curse. With that lingering thought in mind, a brief respite from the city life was a welcome improvement, and an escape from the hold's troubles almost necessary.

"So, Lydia, I have been contemplating where we might be heading for our little celebration."

"We're not going to the Bannered Mare?"

Fjolnir feigned offense at the question. "This is our first dead dragon in more than a month! We need a large celebration, in accordance with a big victory, wouldn't you agree? But no, we shall not taste watered-down drinks tonight. _We_ will be rubbing shoulders with the upper echelons of society."

"Where, exactly?" Lydia asked.

"Well, perhaps a bit of elaboration is necessary. While you were retrieving foodstuffs just yesterday, I received a letter- an invitation to a masquerade ball of sorts, hosted by 'the honorable Ebrius Nasum.' Quite helpfully, dear Ebrius was kind enough to list directions to his manse in this letter."

"A manse? Where does he live? Solitude? Windhelm?"

"No," Fjolnir answered. "Rather, it sounded like he lived in the middle of nowhere, specifically between Dawnstar and Winterhold. If we can get hire a carriage, we could likely be there in time for the feasting and drinking. Which, come to think of it, is actually _all_ that they seem to have planned."

"To the stables, then?"

"My dear Lydia, one does not rub shoulders with the rich and powerful without adopting the raiment to match! So, I suppose that all of that clothing that we have 'procured' over time will finally be useful. Thus, it is back to Breezehome for us, at the moment. And quickly, I must add, before we find ourselves without a carriage driver, and unfashionably late to the party on top of that. Quickly now!"

In a great rush, Fjolnir and Lydia traversed the sea of crestfallen people, the Thane's home now dominating their view. The passage of time seemed to warp itself, their once calm stroll turning into an almost giddy race to dress in whatever finery they might have on hand. Once inside Breezehome, both Thane and Housecarl entered their respective rooms, and set about preparing their garments. Fjolnir, for his part, had simply thrown off his armor once safely behind the door to his room, his own outfit already in mind.

Thus, with the most fluid of movements, the Nord fished out his best attire- a doublet as red as the finest of wines, accompanied by breeches of a charcoal hue. Both for style and for practicality, a pair of black boots came next, followed by a pair of supple leather gloves that effectively balanced adroit maneuverability with a great deal of warmth and comfort. With his opulent guise not yet complete, Fjolnir snatched a jaunty hat from its nearby rack, its ridiculousness made only somewhat appropriate by the occasion. While he might have looked somewhat ridiculous in his getup, it was of the utmost importance that he and Lydia make it to this party at least somewhat on time. Black-Briar Reserve tended to be one of the first refreshments to wane at such festivities, and the lesser-known brands oft went untouched save but by those who proved desperate for a drink, and cared little as to whether or not that it stayed down.

Thus, his livery now adorning his person, Fjolnir was now ready for whatever revelries might follow this evening. He soon realized, however, that both he and Lydia were running scarce on time, and stopping to dwell on anything for but a moment would cause them to be most unfashionably late. Men such as Ebrius tended to be quite powerful in accordance with their prodigious wealth, and many of them would already harbor some sort of negative perception of Fjolnir- being the upstart that he was. Being unpunctual was an excellent way to strengthen that particular…outlook.

"Lydia! Make haste! We must look the part, dear Housecarl, but we mustn't _become_ one of these noblemen and women!"

"I should say the same of you, my Thane," she replied from outside with a short laugh, in what was a rare moment of "off-the-job" banter for her.

"What is that to mean?"

"I've been waiting outside for _you_ for several minutes now."

"Sure," Fjolnir said with an overtly sarcastic laugh, "the Dragonborn has been beaten by his Housecarl in an unspoken race to dress one's self? The man who _can manipulate time_ with a _Shout_ has been beaten? The Dragonborn has difficulties putting on his breeches, is that it?"

"Whatever you say, my Thane," Lydia answered with a sort of mock-obedience.

Fjolnir silently cursed and grumbled as he made his way towards the door, his sword belt once again strapped around his waist, and his armor now lying on the floor in the sloppiest manner possible. Intent on departing this very moment, he opened the door and stepped out. Lydia, as she had japed, had indeed been waiting for him, dressed in the grandiose regalia befitting a noble lady; much of the dress that she wore was a soft blue the color of a morning sky, with a creamy-white trim around the seams. The fabric looked quite expensive, though neither tried to consider who had once worn it, before they had purchased or looted it. Which, come to think of it, was exactly where they received _all_ their clothing. _Damn it, stop thinking about it! That bloodstain on my suit is my blood, gods be damned! Those other stains, as well. Fjolnir Sword-Quill does not wear previously-sullied suits; he is a working man who sullies the things himself…_

Innocuously pointing at Lydia's waist, Fjolnir remarked, "You're not bringing a blade with you? You seem to be missing your sword belt, in any case."

"We're going to a party, my Thane," Lydia pointed out. "And I am fairly doubtful that Ebrius will allow you to bring _your_ sword into his home. Not with his friends around, at least."

Fjolnir laughed as he slid part of the sword out of its sheath, revealing just enough of the blade to cast a light off of the shiny surface of the steel as it met the light of the nearby sconce. "Who would pass up a chance to see the blade I killed Alduin with? Who knows, I might even sell it to him if he can get me an estate of my own!"

"Shall we go and ask him, then?"

"But of course, m'lady!" Fjolnir said with a extravagant bow.

The rest of their journey out of Whiterun was, for all purposes, short and swift. Once they had reentered the sea of people outside, they were attended by an indolently forlorn guardsman, who signaled to another sentry to open the gates for them. Of the people affected by the war, the guards seemed to suffer the most. While everyone else huddled inside of their homes and barred their doors, _they_ had been forced into killing their kinsmen, tripping over corpses atop dilapidated palisades and watching their brothers-in-arms butchered by fellow Nords. Afterwards? They were given the duty of packing the dead into carts, clearing away the rubble, and eventually returning to their patrols upon what had previously been the site of their terrible battle. Thankfully, the inn was still in business, else most of the guardsmen would likely had been wont to end their lives and rejoin their fallen comrades.

Trade, it seemed, had recently increased, judging by the Khajiit caravan situated outside the outer walls. Fjolnir did not exactly recognize any of these merchants, which seemed to imply that more traders were pouring in from the borders, now. At least some good had come from the end of the rebellion, even if it was just the clinking of coin. Such thoughts, however, would be wasted on all but the most optimistic of people in Whiterun, of which there seemed to be none. Therefore, Fjolnir could only shake his head at his own romanticism of the situation, and simply trudge on with their commute.

When at last they came to the carriage, Fjolnir had a coin purse at the ready. Tossing it up towards the driver, he dictated, "As close as you can get us to the border between Dawnstar and Winterhold, please. Just look for the big manse supposedly out there."

"Right," the old Nord replied, his lax face struck with a rather bad case of windburn. "Climb in back and we'll be off."

Lydia, for one, was already clambering aboard, followed shortly after by her Thane, who groaned as he pulled himself up. When at last they were both seated and moderately comfortable, the driver nudged on the reins, and set the horse fastened to the cart to motion. With a slight jerk, the carriage was moving, the sound of the wooden wheels turning about having an almost hypnotic effect on Fjolnir, who stretched his legs out to fill his side of the wagon.

"I shall be nodding off to sleep for now, Lydia. I suggest that you do the same; this damnable cold doesn't exactly do wonders for those who idly sit about."

Fjol was about to say something else, until his somnolent mind allowed the thought to drift back into the furthest chasms of memory. The more he tried to recall the notion, the further it escaped from his conscious mind. The effort did naught but thrust him further into his state of lethargy and lassitude, until even moving about seemed a daunting chore. Soon, his eyes closed, and he fell into a very deep slumber.

(A Friendly Note From the Author: In case anyone is wondering, I deleted this chapter minutes after uploading it upon discovering a most annoying typo that ruined my enjoyment of the paragraph. With the error now fixed, I encourage everyone reading to go about reminding me of other errors that I have yet to fix, that they may be dealt with in a similar fashion...)


	8. A Postlude to Destruction and Ruin

**A Postlude to Destruction and Ruin**

"Does anyone have any idea how this happened?" Sergeant Vingdrill demanded.

The ghastly sight before him necessitated such a reaction. The soldier to whom he spoke had gone pale in the face when leading his superior to the destroyed campsite. Supposedly attacked by a sizeable group of insurgents, not a single man was left alive in the wake of the covert onslaught.

"None, sir," the dutiful subordinate reported, an overtone of nervousness infiltrating within the words that he spoke. "They look to have been overrun, sir. It's…by Phynaster, it's a bloodbath!"

Strewn about this patch of shaded woods was what amounted to an entire detachment of soldiers. Or, rather, what remained of them. The men had been left where they had fallen, their lifeblood having mingled and pooled onto the cold, brown soil upon which their camp had stood. Most of them were mutilated to some degree- some dismembered, others disemboweled, and more still decapitated. Some sick deviant had even taken to desecrating several of the corpses, deciding to lop off the limbs and neck of several random troops amongst the ranks of the dead, leaving only a blood-spattered torso.

Particularly gruesome was the fate that had befallen the commanding officer. The wizened Altmer had been eviscerated by a substantially large blade, and nailed to a nearby tree. His corpse had been exposed to the elements for a sizeable amount of time, though the permeating cold had done nothing to preserve the body; postmortem ruptures had begun to form upon the almost ghostly-pale skin of the fellow Mer. Carrion birds had also made off with much of the flesh upon the cadaver's face, with two glaring, bloodied sockets replacing what had been his eyes. Though the appalling stench emanating from this corpse was present throughout the entirety of the camp in the form of similarly decomposed bodies, the vicinity closest to the tree that he was nailed upon almost seemed to be corrupted with a far more noxious and grotesque odor. At least several men had retched upon first approaching the tree, or so Vingdrill had been told.

Though nature had apparently tried its best to reclaim the vestiges of this deceased victim, one very obvious sign still remained. Upon the commanding officer's chest was an image, viciously carved into his very flesh. The lack of any large spatter of blood upon the torso (which Vingdrill attributed to the marking having been made after the man's death, when such large surges of blood would simply be restrained to stagnant streams of the sanguine fluid) allowed for the glaring red streaks to be seen clearly. They were, as Vingdrill noticed, in the shape of an enclosed fist.

That revelation only made Vingdrill's heart sink. Those soldiers of the Aldmeri Dominion who still remained in Skyrim had recently been forced to contend with a new, unprecedented threat. Attacks such as this were abhorrently common; hit-and-run strikes upon clandestine Thalmor fortifications, all made by some obstinate group of insurgents that had yet to reveal themselves, save only for their assaults that had yet to yield a single survivor.

For whatever reason, their presence had only been made known after a rather grievous onslaught originating from Northwatch Keep, taking place three months after the Stormcloak Rebellion had been supposedly purged. The details of its occurrence had been concealed, but the attack had all but completely diminished the Thalmor presence to the northwest. It took a great deal of resources and time, but the keep's forces had been replaced in a feverish fashion, so as to not provoke a response from the Imperials; such suspicious military action such as that was best saved for the next war with the Empire, as he had overheard Lillandril say afterwards.

Lillandril, of course, was not at all worried by this most recent attack. When word had come of its happening, Vingdrill's superior had ordered him to deal with it. While the sergeant respected his fire-forged companion, he was also well aware that Lillandril only assigned him to otherwise menial and simple tasks, or ones that he simply could not possibly care less about. When Lillandril told him that he would visiting with a former contact, he had also told Vingdrill to merely "see what's going on, jot down a note or two, and leave as quickly as possible…preferably _before_ another Justiciar arrives on the scene and asks where in the name of Oblivion I am."

As far as he was concerned, he had fulfilled that order to the letter. Except, of course, for the departure. It was time, Vingdrill decided, for him to report back. No new information could be learned from reexamining the ruined campsite, and few of the soldiers poking through the debris seemed eager to inform their superior of any other oddities or matters of a macabre nature.

Thus, the Altmer silently retreated back up the hill overlooking the camp. While he should have at least mourned his fallen comrades, he vaguely recalled having at least met the commanding officer on at least one occasion. He was, to hear the rumors abound about him, an upstart, born from the plebs of some backwater village in Alinor. Horrifying to the higher echelons, the particular village was further inland; that was to say that it held only inferiorly-bred specimens, treacherous exiles, and Altmer too unbefitting and ignoble to be called such.

This, Vingdrill decided, was likely why they had been so terribly butchered. Putting baseborn, uneducated rejects of the "common people" in a position of command could only lead to disaster, as this now proved. It was practically elementary that tucking a largely indefensible camp within a valley was suicidal. If nothing else, this was probably the reason for the failed defensive and massacre of the camp's men; they had likely been surrounded and attacked from on high, whilst attempting to futilely fight an enemy that was otherwise unreachable. Had Lillandril gotten to the officer first, the bastard would have been flogged for his incompetence. Now, however, utter apathy towards his death was the next best thing, as it would now seem.

With but a report, Vingdrill knew, Lillandril would inform Ondolemar of any outstanding evidence requiring further investigation, whilst leaving out anything that proved too immaterial to be published in an account as vital as this. Knowing Lillandril, the entirety of this entire incident would be concealed, and the dissidents dealt with before they can so much as publicize themselves and make their struggle known to the world.

As far as anyone was concerned, this event had never taken place, and those whom had died were to go unremembered. To the annals of history, theirs was lower than ignominy, for theirs was to be overlooked; to be forgotten and disremembered was the recompense for their duty, Vingdrill bitterly thought. He shook this thought out of his head, however. They had been given the honor of enlisting in the service of the true descendants of the Aldmeri race, and they had died so that others might accomplish that which they themselves could not- permanent establishment of Elven superiority, and an unofficial revival of the glory days of the time before Man, when Mer cohabited the land, free from such lesser and savage beings. They should have been proud, he finally resolved, to have contributed to that most divine and just goal.

As Sergeant Vingdrill clambered atop his mount, a peculiar sight caught his eye. It was, to the unperceptive, but a lone tree. It was not the tree itself, however, that had stirred such curiosity in the Altmer. Rather, it was what he saw adorning it.

A piece of parchment was posted on the side of the tree, its writing unintelligible at the distance that Vingdrill found himself at. Rousing his horse to motion, he squinted to make out the collection of words upon the paper. It was, as he noted, written in a rather brutish hand, the penmanship implying the lack of literacy and refinement on the writer's part. Thankfully, the oaf had the sense to at least write in large letters, and to leave behind a telltale inscription of an all-too-familiar symbol. Vingdrill was wrought with dismay and a sense of stifling trepidation as he read the contents of the missive.

 _The Stone-Fists send their regards_ , it read. And at the corner of the parchment, the furtive writer had left an iconic motif: an upraised fist that seemed to beat upon the very foundations of order, its very image resplendent with the savagery of the man to whom it was connected to. A man long thought dead… and now once again a wanted rebel.

In a moment of pure shock, Vingdrill mouthed the man's name to himself, fear now coursing through him. As he glanced back down upon the campsite, he was now revolted by the sight, and quickly averted his eyes. Unable to stay any longer, the sergeant rode off into the distance, towards Lillandril's campsite. The commander would not be there, he knew, but his steward would be.

Now resolute in his intentions, Vingdrill pushed his horse further and faster than he would normally dare, and raced back towards the outskirts of Morthal. Time was of the essence, he knew. That axe-dragging Nord had returned from the dead to haunt the Aldmeri Dominion once again. Galmar Stone-Fist had returned.


End file.
